Lamb to the slaughter   reviewed & rewritten
by storyteller779
Summary: As told in the title - Roald Dahl by me in the 21st century. A bit bloodier, a bit more disgusting... But it's still a short story. It's my first Fanfic, so please read and review...


Mrs. Mary Maloney was cutting the grass silently in her wide garden. The dark red roses and the white ones swung in the cold wind, reaching out for her. She gently touched the dim petals and smiled for herself.

The mowing machine was humming loudly and the animals from the farm were trying to drown it out.

In 5,6 minutes her husband would arrive. In 221 the farmer next-door should come and pick the animals.

As she saw a cloud of dust rise in the sky, still too far away to distinguish the car below it. Finally, a dark blue Chevy appeared, and she turned off the engine.

She didn't understand why Patrick had married her. She, the poor girl, the youngest daughter of the poorest farmer, had been chosen by him, the mayor's son, who'd become one of the best paid managers in the surroundings of his hometown.

Patrick never told her anything about his job. Sure, it wasn't of great interest to her and he always paid the bills, so she simply didn't ask. He never told anything at all. He spoke rarely, as did she. But today was different.

He slowly got out of the car and locked it up.

Why in heaven's name did he still drive this goddamn scrap car?

'Hello, sweetheart.' He said in an almost robotic kind of way and kissed her on the cheek. She had the impression to be in a poorly made TV-show.

'Evening, darling.' She smiled cheerfully. 'How was work?'

Surprised, he looked at her. 'Very well, as usual. Thanks for asking.'

'Sweetie, I know I never ask, but tell me… what exactly are you managing?'

His look got even more surprised. 'Uh – it's a factory. We produce cooling boxes for meat – pork, lamb and other stuff. You see what I mean.'

'Really? And what is this, sugar?' Her good-looking husband stared blankly at the sheet of paper she held in front of his face.

She'd read it before. It said something of a big channel on TV. And apparently, he was one of the speakers. That surely was the reason he never wanted to buy a television. And the letter said he was getting fired.

'I don't understand…', he began.

There were two mowing machines. One for the lawn, the other one for the hedge.

Mary turned on the one for the hedge and had her husband sliced up like a piece of meat before he knew what was happening to him.

After making sure he really was dead, she cut off arms, legs and his head, and added the pieces to the already mown grass and branches.

Then she took the grass she had mown and her husband's body parts to the lambs in the stable. Her sweet little snow-white lambs.

The animals began eating and she looked at her wrist-watch. 196 minutes till the farmer arrived. Perfect.

She installed the irrigation system and water spread everywhere, especially where blood had been spilled. Maybe her white roses would become red next year.

She cleaned up the bloody hedge-mowing-machine and burned the cloth with the pieces of wood which usually were used to transmit warmth to the whole wooden construction she called 'home'. She loved the chimney.

Mary stood up and went to see what the innocent lambs were doing. They were the means to an end. They had eaten everything but her dear husband's bones. She took those and went to the old mill in the back-yard and began grinding them, as well as grain. Then she put all of this in a paper-bag and brought it to the old-fashioned kitchen.

Mary began making bread with it and as the dough was getting crispy brown in the oven, she went outside to water the lambs. The liquid became reddish instantly and she watched the lovely flow of it snakingly winding itself to the waste-pipe.

With the garden hose she spattered water over the lambs as she did every month. The lambs had to be white and resplendent.

She looked at her watch. 20 minutes.

She drove the Chevy into the underground garage she and Patrick had built some time ago. With their own hands. But they had never told anyone about it. It was supposed to be a surprise for everyone on their marriage day. That should have been tomorrow. But now it was too late. He had done unforgivable mistakes.

She shut the garage, from which the opening was inlaid into the ground, and spread dark brown earth and false grass over it.

Perfect.

She turned off the lamb-sprinkler/hose and dried them. Then she got back into the almost dilapidated farm that once used to belong to her father. She changed her clothes and threw the old ones to the fire. They did actually burn quite well.

She went downstairs, just as the farmer – Davy – arrived with his pick-up.

'Mary! How're ye?', he greeted her, a happy grin on his wrinkled and tanned face.

'Davy, hi! Ah'm fine, thanks. And yerself?', she asked nicely.

'Quite okay. Work's doing fine an' all. Where's Pat?'

'Oh, he told me he'd come later this evening. About 7 o'clock.'

'He out with friends?'

'I dunno. I'll ask him afterwards.'

'Send my best regards.'

'I'll do that – just because it's you.' She winked at him and he grinned. 'You wanna see the lambs?'

'America's best lambs? Sure I do!' They laughed together.

He followed her to the stables and looked at the eleven little snow-white lambs.

'As healthy as ever, I suppose?', he asked and she nodded, smiling.

'Well, when I'll come back from Jack's butcher shop, I'll bring you a part of the meat. As I always did.'

'Thanks, Davy.' Then, carefully, they led the lambs outside and towards the quite big pick-up.

'Watch it, the ground's wet. I cut the grass this afternoon.'

'Really? Nice job you did there.'

'You're too kind.' She grinned at him. 'Be careful, even if it's a work of art.'

The lambs jumped in to the back of the pick-up, and after saying goodbye to each other, Davy drove away.

Mary went back and fetched the brain, which was still lying in the mill. Grey and sticky. As had been Patrick.

She washed the bowl in which it had lain and put the brain in the dog's dish. The old dog came ambling and ate quickly without leaving a trace of blood.

'Good boy.' She patted the dog's head, and his brown eyes shone warmly, the tail wiggling happily.

After thus she took the bread out of the oven, its crust as nice and warm as the gentle touch of her husband.

She looked at her watch. Ten past seven.

Davy hooted outside, and she ran out of the kitchen, deactivated hurriedly the still water-spreading sprinkler and moved towards the pick-up with the scaly dark grey paint.

'Hiya! Here you go, your hunk of lamb meat. Is Pat already back?'

She shook her head, tears in her dark brown eyes. 'No, but it's only ten past seven. Maybe he'll come a little later. Traffic jam or so. If he isn't here at half past, I'll call you. And 911.'

He simply nodded and reluctantly drove away.

Slightly smiling, she put the hunk of blood-dripping lamb-flesh – 18 ounces – in the oven. After just a few minutes, the pleasant smell of roasting meat propagated in the whole first floor.

At quarter past seven she took a cold shower to scrub off all the smell and the blood on her hands. At half past, she called the police.

'Hello?', she sobbed, 'My… my husband said he'd come home at seven and he still… still isn't here… Please, could you co…come? Usually he's… he's punctual…'

The policeman agreed at once and she told him her address.

Then she called Davy.

Both Davy and the police arrived at the same time. Speaking of facts, it took five minutes.

She cried and sobbed and whimpered and told both Davy and the police everything she was supposed to know.

They phoned his factory, which told the police Mr. Maloney would have left at approximately three o'clock with his Chevy, as usual.

'Mrs. Maloney, could the thought have crossed your mind that your husband possibly could have been unfaithful to you?', an officer asked.

Mrs. Maloney cried even more and Davy told – full with indignation – the officer, Patrick Maloney would never do such a thing. All the time, Davy rocked Mary like a little child and tried to comfort her the best he could.

The policemen looked everywhere in town and its surroundings till ten o'clock, but didn't find Mr. Maloney or his car.

'Are you sure?', Mary Maloney asked again and again, and the police went on searching, but Patrick Maloney was untraceable.

'We'll continue tomorrow. Mr. Prentiss, please stay with her for a moment and console her as well as you're able to.' Davy nodded and the policemen left.

'Oh dear! I forgot the lamb chops!' She ran into the kitchen, but the chops were just cooked right. Medium rare.

'I made some for two. Would you mind staying and eating a bit of it?', she asked pleadingly.

He agreed and ate most of the chops himself.

'Delicious, Mary. But I hope – I really do – they'll find him quickly. Or at least his body. I bet he's right under our nose.', he said while Mary was turned towards the kitchen stove. She nodded without a word, but she was silently smiling to herself.

'Oh, I almost forgot about this.', she recalled and turned around, her face serious. 'Could you bring this back to the post office? It has been sent to the wrong address. That would be so kind of you.' She gave him an opened letter in its old envelope. 'I opened it by mistake.' He nodded and slipped it into his pocket.

'Sure thing, Mary, I'll do it.'

After that, he saw it was half past eleven and said goodbye after being sure she would survive without someone by her side holding her hand.

'I'll be back tomorrow. I'll be there before you'd wake up, if you want me to.', he told her and drove away into the dark night. It was quite warm for an October night.

Mary Maloney waved goodbye and smiled to herself.

Her husband had been managing a factory.

He had never been unfaithful.

The letter she had shown him and given to Davy was addressed to Patrick Marconey.

She began laughing.


End file.
